Memoirs of an Accidental Hustler

by J. M. Benjamin

  “Ay yo, Dad, no young cats hustle out here?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t deal with them. That’s where you come in at. You gonna cut them in too after the word is out that we got that raw and that cook up. I’m gonna stop at these projects, over at a house of a lady friend of mines, where the kids around your age get the most money at.”

  “Oh, you got another lady friend down here?”

  “Just business,” he said, laughing.

  It reminded me of back in the day when I used to sell hand to hand, only smaller and slower; but you could tell this was where it was at. I thought most of the money came through all the projects around the world on the drug tip. While my pops ran inside, I got out the car and leaned on the trunk.

  “Yo, you got some ready rock?” a man asked me.

  “What?”

  “Some cook up?”

  “Nah, go check them cats over there.”

  “Where you from, the city? ’Cause you don’t sound like you from down here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You brought some of that New York dope with you? That butter?”

  “Nah, yo, I’m just visiting my peoples.”

  “Oh, my bad, sorry about that.”

  I couldn’t stop laughing from the way he talked and what he said. He was more country than a muthafucka.

  “What’s happenin’, man?” one of four kids said, walking up to me. “You kin to Jay and dem?”

  “Yeah, that’s my pops.”

  “Oh, that’s chill. Big Jay good peoples. You from New York then, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where at?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “I know peoples in Brooklyn. You know Travis?” he asked as if there were only one person named Travis in the whole borough.

  “What part he from?” I asked, dying on the inside from his questions, trying to keep a straight face.

  “I don’t know what part he from.”

  “I know a lot of Travises, kid.”

  “Yeah, you right. That was a stupid question.”

  “Nah, it’s cool. If you knew where he was from I might’ve known him,” I said, trying to smooth things out.

  “My name’s Calvin. These my boys, Dre, Slick, and Wood.”

  “Yo, I’m Mil.”

  “How long you down here for?”

  “A couple days.”

  “There’s something going on at the BBQ’s tonight. Ya daddy know where it is. We gonna all be up in there if you wanna come. We got you; ain’t nothing gonna kick off up in there unless we do the kickin’ off.”

  I liked Calvin and them already because they reminded me of the project niggas back home. That’s how it was whenever we went out.

  “Yeah, that sounds legit. I’ma come through and check it out. All of you live around here?”

  “We all grew up around here. All of them there by the front, them our niggas too, but us four be together.”

  “What y’all be movin’ out here?”

  “We be slingin’ that powder and that cook up mostly and some weed, but we all smoke too much. You drink?”

  “Nah, I sip though.”

  “You what?”

  “I drink.”

  “Oh, yeah, we do a lot of that too.”

  The whole time I was talking to them I saw a monster flow come through. People in cars, pickup trucks, vans, bikes, and on foot coming from all angles, just like the projects.

  “You brought something down wit’ you?” Calvin asked.

  “A little something.”

  “Well, if you bring some to the club you can move at least three or four ounces of it if you got it like that.”

  I was thinking, He’s gots to be crazy if he thinks I’m taking drugs to a club.

  “All them rock stars be out in the parking lot at night and somebody from across town always lookin’ for a double up to make some money off of.”

  I figured rock stars were no different from crackheads. I didn’t know what he was talking about when he said “double up,” but I wasn’t going to let him know that. “I’ll see what my pops talkin’ about and I’ll catch you at the spot later.”

  “All right, New York, we’ll see you.”

  My father was coming out just as they were leaving. “I knew you was gonna make some kind of connection; that’s why I left you out here,” he said as we pulled off.

  I told him about the conversation I had with Calvin and them and then asked what a rock star and double up were. He told me a rock star was just like a crackhead, and a double up was anything you sold somebody that they could double their money off of; and he said that BBQ was the place to be tonight, and that’s where we going anyway.

  * * *

  The spot was like no other club I had ever been to. It was more like a juke joint and the users and dealers partied together. It was crazy because you really couldn’t tell who was who. I hooked up with Calvin and the rest of the cats I met earlier and we had a few drinks together. My father was outside the majority of the time and only came in to check on me here and there. I was feeling the drinks and started dancing a little. Niggas and chicks watched as I did shit that hadn’t come down there yet. Calvin and his boys could dance, but they couldn’t fuck with me.

  This caramel shorty with a short-ass skirt and a fat butt to match was on me. Calvin peeped it and said, “You want that ho? I’ll set that up for you tonight.”

  I said, “All right.” By the time it was over it was official: shorty was leaving with me; and my pops said he moved four ounces; and I had only been there one day.

  Just as we were about to leave Calvin hollered at me, “New York, let me kick it to you for a minute.”

  “What up, kid?”

  “Ay, what you do for me for three hundred dollars?”

  Off the top of my head, I couldn’t remember what my father had said so I just used the lingo that I knew. “On the strength I’ll hit you wit’ something to make at least a G.”

  “All right, bet. I’ll have three bills by the morning.”

  “I’ll come check you; and good lookin’ with shorty.”

  He laughed. “Man, that ho ain’t nothing. Don’t even worry about it.”

  * * *

  Within two days, the nine ounces were gone. I hung out with Calvin for the next two days before I was going back a day early. He had hipped me to fifty slabs, a hundred slabs, eight balls, and quarters where you could wind up making $1,400 off an ounce; and he told me that if I fronted cats’ ounces they could bring back $1,800 off an ounce. I wound up making almost ten Gs off the nine ounces I came down with.

  Calvin introduced me to a female cousin of his named Tia, who had a little daughter; they lived up in the projects too. I stayed the night with her but didn’t hit it, which was cool because she was schooled to the South game and I had other intentions, bigger plans than just sexing her.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  “Damn, nigga, you lookin real country,” Mal said, joking, giving me a hug.

  “I missed you, bro.”

  “I missed you too, kid.”

  “It was sweet just like Dad said. All I did was party, ’cause that shit was gone in two days and niggas still was askin’ did I have that shit.”

  “Word!”

  “Yeah, kid. Dad moved four ounces for me at a club for eleven hundred dollars a piece. Then two more the next day and I moved three up in these projects down there with come cool country cats, and I bagged a nice shorty who lives in the same projects.”

  “So now what’s up?”

  “Yo, I’m telling you this is where it’s at for us. I think if I would’ve taken a whole pie I could’ve moved it in four days.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I’m telling you, straight up.”

  “All right, we’ll take a brick down there this weekend then.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  It only took two and a half days to move the brick we had taken down South. By the time we had
sold out, we had met dudes from almost every part of South Carolina and some from North Carolina. We were moving ounces by the threes or more. I had wifed Tia up, Mal found him a shorty from the next projects, and Calvin and them were ready to be fronted ounces, so things were going good thanks to our dad. This was definitely our time to blow.

  Our first year down there we had moved about fifteen to twenty keys. We could’ve moved more but the South was funny like that. It had its dry spells some weeks and months. Then there were times when we had to make examples out of cats who didn’t believe that we were built like that. Without going into details, we had to put in work and, when we did, it slowed the flow down.

  By 1998, our third year down there, we were bubbling hard. We had both copped double-wide trailers not too far from our father’s, plus two houses in town. Mal had a Navigator and I had an Escalade, and we both had a 500SL coupe and a Range apiece, and 1100s back home. We had come up on some liquor licenses for cheap and opened up a club in Florence, South Carolina.

  By 1999, back home we opened up a family grocery store on the west end in Jersey, not too far from the projects. Business was good both legal and illegally. Tonya wound up having a girl and so did Felicia. My daughter’s names were Jamiyah and Kamiyah. I moved Tia up out of the projects and into a house because she was carrying my third child, but we still kept her apartment to pump out of. It was crazy how I went from not having or wanting any kids to having three back to back by three different women. I realized that’s how it was when you were ballin’ and you’re sticking in moving. Overall, I had no complaints and neither did my brother.

  “Yo, this is too much money in the crib,” Mal said. We had just finished counting $430,000.

  “Not really, ’cause when I go up top, three of that is goin’ to the fifteen bricks I gotta get.”

  “Still, that’ll be a hundred thirty Gs left down here; plus, we got mad work out right now, we don’t need all of this in here.”

  “You’re right. I’ll just take a hundred of that with me, ’cause I gotta stop up there to check on your nieces anyway, so I’ma go through Jersey on the way.”

  “Yeah, you could do that. Stop and check on Dana and li’l Mal for me, and call and see if Fisa need anything.”

  “I got you.”

  “Put that hundred separate from the three hundred, so I ain’t gotta be worryin’ about that when I get up there. I’ma take five of that thirty to travel with, just in case something new came out that we ain’t got.”

  “No doubt, and cop me a pair of white on white, and red and white Air Ones while you up there.”

  Ring! Ring!

  “Yo, who this?”

  “Kamil, this Christy, Tia’s friend.”

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Tia went into labor. They just took her to the hospital, and she told me to call you.”

  “Word! Oh, shit! A’ight, which hospital they take her to?”

  “The one in Florence.”

  “Okay, thanks,”

  “Who in the hospital?”

  “Tia. She went into labor.”

  “Word?”

  “Yeah, kid, I gots to shoot out there to Florence.”

  “Yeah, handle ya business, yo. Don’t even worry about this. I’ll go up and take care this. You go see ya newborn and you just double up on the next two trips.”

  “Word!”

  “Congratulations, kid. I hope it’s a boy.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll hit you when I’m in the area.”

  “All right, one.”

  What me and Kamal had hoped for came true. It was a boy. On June 10, 1999, Tia gave birth to my third child, who was also my first son: seven pounds, eight ounces. She wanted to name him after me, but one of us was enough in the world, so instead I named him Khalif and, out of respect for Mustafa, I made his last name my son’s middle name, which was Ali. Khalif Ali Benson was what the birth certificate said. I loved my daughters, but I was proud and happy to have a son.

  I stayed at the hospital all night with Tia. Mal called me earlier and told me that Moms wasn’t home when he went to drop the money off so he was going to drop it off on the way coming back. Since then I hadn’t heard from him.

  The next morning, I woke up to my cell phone ringing. I was stiff and sore from sleeping in the hospital chair. “Yeah, what’s up, who this?”

  “Hello, Mm . . . Mil?” I heard someone crying through the phone.

  “Who this?”

  “It’s Dana.” When she said her name, my stomach began to hurt.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She started to cry even harder.

  “Dana what’s wrong? Where’s Mal?”

  “They killed him.”

  My heart skipped a beat and I felt like I couldn’t breath. I thought I was hearing things. “What! Who? What the fuck you talking about?”

  “The cops. They killed Kamal,” she said again.

  “Hold on, Dana, my moms on the other line. Hello?”

  “Oh my God, Kamil!”

  “Ma, what happened?”

  “Your brother is dead,” my mother cried through the phone.

  “No! Ma! No! Say it ain’t true! Say it ain’t it true!”

  “I’m sorry, baby, he’s gone.”

  “Ah, man! Aah, man!”

  “Kamil, what’s wrong?” Tia asked, waking up to find me hysterical; but I couldn’t speak. The pain was too unbearable. I felt like dying myself. I jumped up, slammed my phone down, and stormed out of the room.

  “Kamil, what’s wrong?” Tia asked again.

  I screamed as loud as I could, “They killed my brother!”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  My father and I caught the next available flight to the Newark airport. Dana picked us up. I had regained my composure and calmed back down after a few drinks on the plane, but I still felt like I’d been run over by a bus or something.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said to Dana as soon as we got in the car. Just knowing that this was my brother’s Benz made tears spill out of my eyes and run down my face, because I knew that I would never see him drive his car again, or see him do anything else for that matter. I not only lost my brother, but my best friend also.

  “The news said that the state troopers pulled him over on 78, and when they asked him to step out of the truck, he pulled off. They chased him about four miles down the highway until he had spun out of control and hit the divider and flipped over six times. They said he died instantly.” She paused. “They said they found fifteen kilos of cocaine and sixty-five thousand dollars in cash in the truck, which is why they believed he pulled off.”

  After hearing the story, I knew the police had taken $40,000 off of Kamal after he died because I knew for a fact that he had $100,000 on him to give to my moms, plus an extra $5,000 spending money. Why didn’t he take the ticket or whatever? He was driving legit. So many thoughts, so many questions. I began to cry harder. These tears were guilt. I knew it was my turn to make the trip up to New York, but Tia had gone into labor.

  Damn, why she have to go in labor then, of all times? That should’ve been me in the truck instead of Kamal. Why the fuck didn’t I delay the trip? I cursed myself as I gazed out the passenger’s window.

  My mother, grandma, and two sisters were at the house when my dad and I got there. As soon as I walked through the door, my moms flew into my arms. You could see that they all had been crying, because everyone’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy. As my mother sobbed, her tears melted through my shirt and went straight to my heart.

  “Why y’all couldn’t just listen to me? Why?” she cried out. “Why, Kamil?” she yelled again. She pushed away from me and smacked me in the face then started beating on my chest. “Why?” she repeated. She was hysterical. I tried to grab her arms, but she was too out of control. “You promised me. You two promised me!”

  “Ma! Ma!” I called out to calm her down, but she couldn’t hear me. She just kept smacking and punchin
g me.

  “Sister, stop! Sister!” my grandmother yelled, but my mother continued until she was too tired to swing anymore. I wrapped my arms around her again and held her. My sisters came over and joined me. I rocked my moms back and forth while she cried out to God. I rubbed her back and tried to assure her that everything would be okay. A few more minutes went by before she regained her composure.

  “I’m okay, let me go,” she said to me.

  I released her from my hold. “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” she replied as she wiped her face. “What is he doing here?” my mother asked, spotting my dad.

  “He flew up with me as soon as we heard what happened.”

  “He don’t belong here. I want him out!”

  “Jane, he was my son too,” my father said.

  “Your son? Jay, please! You gave up those rights a long time ago when you chose the streets over your family, so don’t stand there talking about how he was your son too. I raised these kids, all of them. I was their mother and their father, not you. Me!”

  “Ma, calm down.”

  “Kamil, stay out of this.” She pointed at me. “You think if you would’ve been the man or at least half the man you claimed to be, my children wouldn’t have had to be subjected to the type of environment I had to raise them in? Do you think if you would’ve cared about them like you cared about yourself and those damn streets back then, my sons would’ve had a man in their lives to teach them how to be men? It’s because of you I lost my child. You’re the one who gave us all up. It was you who wasn’t there for them and it was you who even took them to the South and got them believing that it’s all right to be out there. What type of man would condone his own children in the streets, living the life of crime and corruption? You’re not a man, not at all! Get out of my house! Get the hell out!” my moms yelled.

  I thought my father was going to say something that would trigger a bigger confrontation, forcing me to intervene, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned around, and walked out the door. I didn’t follow him this time like I did when Kamal had verbally assaulted him, because this was between him and my mother. Her words had been a long time coming and I had no right to interfere.